On April 26 of this year, I was on a train with my five-year-old son
Charlie. We were on our way to spend shabbat with friends in the city.
You see, our town, significant in the history of Swedish Jewry, shut its
synagogue in the late 90s. All that remains now is a plaque stating
that there was once Jewish life here, while we are left with an
hour-long train ride every weekend to attend services.

My son was wearing his kippah as we got on the train. He loves his
kippah. He is not yet old enough to know the dangers entailed in wearing
it, for this is a fact from which I have tried to protect him. But
April 26 would change all that.

There was a gentleman sitting in our reserved seat. An Arab, maybe fifty
years old, listening to music. Apologizing for the inconvenience, I
asked him politely for our seat. He got up, inspected my son, and then
leaned over me, saying: You people always take what you want. You need to learn.

He then walked straight into my son, causing him to fall over, and took the seat behind us.

We sat. Hiding my trembling hands from my son’s sight, I picked up
Shabbes for Kids and started to review the week’s Torah portion with
him. We hadn’t progressed as far as a page before the man stood up and
screamed: Quiet! I don’t want to hear that! You take what you want and never think of others! Shut up!

He stamped his feet, grunting and glaring at my son. Fighting tears of
rage, I assured Charlie that the man was just grumpy and tried to turned
the episode into a game, one that required us to remain super quiet for
as long as possible. I even managed to coax a conspiratorial smile out
of him.

But even this failed to appease our tormentor, who spent the rest of the
trip repeatedly kicking the back of my son’s seat. At one point I
glanced around our compartment: there were four other people there,
four adults witnessing a single mother and her five-year-old child being
attacked by a grown man. They did nothing. I tried forcing them to
meet my gaze; but they just turned away, put on their headphones, stared
at their screens, ignored what was happening in front of them.

I did not summon the railway police. I did not scream back at the man. I know better. I know that the
only way to survive as a Jew in my country is not to be seen as one.
Not to be exposed but to shut up and fade into the woodwork. I’ve known this for quite some time. Unfortunately, my son knows it now, too.

In your fascinating and informative article you mention that ritual
slaughter, kosher as well as hallal, is under threat in Europe. Well, in
Sweden kosher butchering was outlawed in 1937 and has been illegal ever
since. The threat is not a threat but a reality—for me as, on a much
graver scale, it had been for my grandparents, forced into hiding in a
Sweden silently collaborating with the Nazis throughout the world war.
The next threat on the horizon is a ban on even importing kosher
products, compelling me and many of my friends to smuggle kosher meat
from Israel on our return trips from that land.

By contrast, hallal slaughter is not banned in Sweden. My government, when asked about the disparity, replies that the methods of slaughter in Judaism are uniquely barbaric.

...In your essay you mention that Jewish religious and cultural
activities in Western Europe are everywhere on the rise. This, too, is
not my reality. What I see is that the Holocaust wing at the Jewish
Museum is crowded with visitors, while the synagogues are empty. I see
cute Woody Allen-ish activities being promoted, and actual Jewish life
being banned. The dead, suffering Jew is glorified; the healthy, active Jew is vilified.

...What frightens me most is that my government is proscribing Jewish
life. Yes, by outlawing circumcision, banning kosher slaughter, and
telling us forthrightly that the only way to avoid being harassed in the
streets is to distance ourselves from Israel, they are reinventing the
conditions of the Eastern Europe past that brought our community to this
country in the first place. This is what is driving us out: one by one,
bill by bill.

Of course, mere survival isn't living. From this description, it looks
like Jewish life in the real sense of the word is already dead in
Sweden.

On April 26 of this year, I was on a train with my five-year-old son
Charlie. We were on our way to spend shabbat with friends in the city.
You see, our town, significant in the history of Swedish Jewry, shut its
synagogue in the late 90s. All that remains now is a plaque stating
that there was once Jewish life here, while we are left with an
hour-long train ride every weekend to attend services.

My son was wearing his kippah as we got on the train. He loves his
kippah. He is not yet old enough to know the dangers entailed in wearing
it, for this is a fact from which I have tried to protect him. But
April 26 would change all that.

There was a gentleman sitting in our reserved seat. An Arab, maybe fifty
years old, listening to music. Apologizing for the inconvenience, I
asked him politely for our seat. He got up, inspected my son, and then
leaned over me, saying: You people always take what you want. You need to learn.

He then walked straight into my son, causing him to fall over, and took the seat behind us.

We sat. Hiding my trembling hands from my son’s sight, I picked up
Shabbes for Kids and started to review the week’s Torah portion with
him. We hadn’t progressed as far as a page before the man stood up and
screamed: Quiet! I don’t want to hear that! You take what you want and never think of others! Shut up!